Bare Bones

So, I'm starting a magazine. Isn't now the time? If not now, then when?

We go to print hopefully before August.

For more information on what/when/who/how/Gucci Mane, visit Bare Bones Magazine's Official Blogspot!!

Or just join the facebook group. So New Media. So web2k10. So ridiculous.

I'm reading White Noise by DeLillo right now. It's giving me a real bad case of the "I'm waiting for something but nothing ever comes"es right now. It makes me want to eat a lot of fried chicken. It makes me hungry, voraciously hungry, the way only a novel about ennui and death can.

I wish I had a car here in Provo. If I did, I would drive and drive and drive. I don't though, so I walk and walk and walk. I wonder what other people think about when they walk. I wonder if they whistle or sing like I do a lot of times while I walk. I can't help not singing or whistling. I wonder if they think that it's weird that I'm whistling or singing. I wonder if the ground can hear me singing and whistling.

Sometimes I pass somebody and am suddenly embarrassed and worried that I'd been saying my thoughts out loud as I walked. Not that I typically think anything vulgar or embarrassing. In fact, I think a lot of very boring, self-centered things. But isn't that more embarrassing than, say, thinking about death or blowing things up or sex?

If I were to walk past somebody who was saying all of their thoughts out loud and they were saying, "I don't think I like the way I walk, I think it looks like a lumberjack on steroids. Man it's cold out today, why didn't I bring a jacket? Do I have bad circulation? How long of a walk is it up a mountain? Could I do that?"
instead of "I would love to kill that guy. And seduce that old lady. And knock over that newspaper dispenser. And jump out of a window."

Our ordinary thoughts are embarrassingly devoid of beauty, imagination, or outwardness. They sound just like a footstep on concrete. Dull. Monotonous. Irritating.

Herman Melville. More like Herman Awesomeville.

"Time was her labyrinth, in which Hunilla was entirely lost... Humanity, thou strong thing, I worship thee, not in the laureled victor, but in this vanquished one."

-The Encantadas

Seriously? Herman Melville? Who would have known you would be actually really awesome to read. Sometimes your diction made my eyes bleed, but all of those years of bromidic vocabulary exercises in our beloved public school system actually paid off. This dude. Right here. A genius.

Also of note: Blogspot does not recognize Encatadas as a word. The first suggestion of change is "enchiladas". I chuckle, I chuckle.

Provolone

Here I am, back in the 801. It's weird being back, or at least being in one solid place after weeks of turbulent and frantic travel. I look forward, in part, to a sweet and quiet existence. I plan on living in the library and my apartment, like I was selling horchata and loose meat tacos from the back of a truck.

Call me if you want to hang outski. I'll be listen to a lot of Big Star and Best Coast.

Home Is Where I'm Alone With You

Recently my mind has been in a fury and fit over all these beginnings and endings. Maybe I'll figure it all out on the road. I mean, I totally plan on "finding myself" out there, knowhattamean? It's going to be great when I finally "find myself" because a big siren will go off and there will be fireworks and my hands will catch on fire and I'll cry and I'll cry and I'll cry with hope and exhaltation and my parents will be there, it'll be in Wyoming I'm sure of it, they'll be there on the side of the road clapping and their hands will be on fire too and every body will be so happy; it'll be wonderful you know?

The road. The ultimate explanation. The terrible home for boys with no ambition. The excuse. The reason. I'm out there to find a whole lot more than my way home, especially when this trip is so very much about finding a home. We'll see where I end up at the end of all of this. Probably Provo.

I just watched the last year of my life on film. Well, to be honest, it was Louis' life. But we're all in there, all of us, wrapped up in the hours of film. It was pretty incredible to see the whole thing, finally, and I will say that it did not disappoint. It was strange to see the other side of things. The way things looked not from these two eyes. Barry, you've got talent. It was a visceral symphony.

In Which No Significant Points Are Made

I think I'm most suited for a life of quiet contemplation. Lately, I've just been reading and watching movies. I went out today for some food and saw a couple of people I knew. We talked for short intervals. We "caught up" or whatever. And I took an interest in their lives. I thought about them on the drive home. I wondered about them. I ate dinner and thought about my books and my movies. About how life swirls around them. About the talented folks I know and love. I thought about all of this and then realized that my mind is racing, raving, monologuing, dialoguing, it's turned on and off all day long. I'm getting these furrows in my brow because my face is constantly stuck in a concentrated stare.

I'm no good around social situations. I like to get together with a few people who won't mind if I yell "A MILLI A MILLI, AMEN" out of the top of a convertible in response to "WHEReS THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE". And then won't mind, too, if I just kind of stare off into space for awhile thinking about things, or no-things, or every-things. People who I can just kind of wander about in the daze that I'm usually in. It's true: I'm almost always in a daze. Because, generally, I'm just lost in contemplation about things that ordinarily don't matter. Like Cory Haim's death, or a class I want to teach, or a story I want to write.

Hmmm... I just kind of got lost in what I was going to say in this blawg post.

Thoughts 4daze.